


Dancer in the Dark

by RoseGoldBrody



Category: Original Work
Genre: dead bodies up in here, kids have a hard time, uuuh that's about it for big warnings i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-07 08:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseGoldBrody/pseuds/RoseGoldBrody
Summary: Based on some OCs I had a dream aboutSupplemental Info can be found here:https://twitter.com/brody_booty/status/1132983793952874496





	1. Cruel Work

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for poor formatting here... I feel like I can never win with AO3

Camille had never been a light sleeper.

The sound of the phone gave them a start as they woke with a sharp inhale; eyes blinking wildly to adjust. It was still dark out – what with it still being winter – and Camille sighed. The hotel floor hadn’t been the most comfortable but they promised to switch sleeping spots with Bartholomew who was still asleep on the couch. The phone persisted as it called for someone to answer. From behind the closed bedroom door, Camille heard murmurs and rustles. There were more sounds of a few words exchanged in harsh tones before the door opened. Footsteps vibrated Camille’s skull as they laid on their back and stared at the ceiling. The stride and precise footfall was enough for Camille to correctly guess its owner as Tilo picked up the phone – voice low and familiar. Camille blinked away the last bits of darkness and their eyes narrowed at the ceiling as they strained to listen. After a few moments, Camille’s foggy brain realized there was a reason the conversation didn’t make sense – Tilo had been speaking French. The receiver clicked softly as it was set down and Camille waited. They all might have to move again – themselves, Bartholomew, Tilo, and Nikita. It was a tiring lifestyle for the two 10-year-olds, but it was their reality for now. At least for another month or so… The footsteps stopped by Camille’s feet. They didn’t bother to look as Tilo spoke.

“Are you up, Camille?” he whispered.

The way he said their name sent a tingle over their skin – the French intonation was surprisingly soothing.

“I thought Belgian people spoke German.” They replied flatly.

“We speak French and Dutch too-” Tilo said, “Wake up Bartholomew, would you?”

Camille propped themselves up on their arms to look at the man. Light slowly filled the hotel room but they could only make out his outline; arms crossed and expression hidden. Tilo’s foot tapped the edge of the couch and Bartholomew stirred gently.

“Am I not going?” Camille asked.

“No. It’s just Bartholomew and I.”

“What about Uncle Nikita?”

Tilo made a small sound Camille couldn’t place.

“Just Bartholomew and I.” A repeat reply.

Camille was ready to press the man but he turned on his heel; no doubt to get ready. The child sighed before they flopped on the floor once more. The thud made their skull ache and they glanced to Bartholomew. His arm hung down over the edge of the couch and they reached out to it slowly. His hand was warm and Camille grasped it gently before offering a squeeze. It was a trick they had learned in the orphanage when no one else could wake the boy. Loud noises and rough shakes took too much effort but the smallest squeeze of his hand always worked. Bartholomew groaned.

“Camille?” he asked.

They could feel the other moving as they held fast to his hand.

“Yeah.”

Bartholomew peered over the edge of the couch; dark hair a mess.

“Are you okay?”

Camille offered a little smile – lost in the darkness, no doubt – as they let go of the other’s hand.

“I’m fine - Uncle Tilo needs you up.” They explained, “He got a call.”

Bartholomew sat up and rubbed his eyes, “Okay…”

Tilo emerged as if on cue as he shrugged on his jacket. In a fluid motion, he stooped down to grab Bartholomew’s boots before tossing them in his direction. The boy let out a small sound as he fumbled with the catch.

“Five minutes - then we leave.”

Bartholomew’s eyes widened as his hands worked quickly to get his boots on his feet. When Tilo or Nikita said five minutes, they meant it. On several occasions, the two had thought themselves stranded when the men left without a word – having stuck true to the five minute rule. Camille watched as the other hurried and felt strangely proud. Only a few months prior, Bartholomew had been timid at nearly every turn but now he seemed to finally be adapting. Tilo glanced at his watch as he eyed the boy. The man turned to leave the room and quick on his heel, Bartholomew followed. Before shutting the door, the boy looked back at Camille. Their blond hair seemed illuminated in the morning light as he grinned.

“Take the couch, okay? You should get more sleep.”

The door shut softly and Bartholomew let out a breath. Tilo had made it halfway down the hallway – legs much longer than the boy’s – and Bartholomew jogged to catch up.

“Uncle Tilo-” he began.

“We’re going to pick up a package,” he began as the two entered the elevator, “It will need to be delivered to the harbor.”

Bartholomew watched the numbers tick down as the elevator descended. In the lobby, there was hardly a soul though Tilo spoke in low tones.

“You’ll assist me in making sure it’s suitable for the drop-off-”

“Like what?”

“We’ll get to that.”

Tilo took out his keys as they made their way out of the hotel – waving to the front desk attendant quickly. As the door opened, there was a rush of cold air and their breath came out in thick white puffs. Bartholomew crossed his arms with a shiver as they made their way through the parking lot. The boy glanced around in the morning quiet – taking in the sights he hadn’t been able to see earlier. The group moved so quickly that he never got a chance to really see where he was. Even now, he could scarcely say what town they were in. Somewhere coastal, somewhere in Denmark. He was glad to be in the warmth of Tilo’s car as the man turned the key and it sprung to life. The rumble from the engine was quiet and Bartholomew rest his head against the window. The vibrations helped to keep him awake as he yawned.

“The people we’re meeting probably won’t be friendly.” Tilo said suddenly.

Bartholomew nodded.

“They might not like seeing a kid in tow.”

Another nod.

“They definitely won’t like hearing a kid.”

The boy nodded again and then stiffened as Tilo turned to him suddenly; the car having stopped at a red light.

“So,” he said, “be on your best behavior and do as I say - when I say it.”

“I will, Uncle Tilo.”

The reply seemed satisfactory as Tilo gave Bartholomew a firm pat on the shoulder. The light turned green and the pair were well on their way – keeping the silence as they drove along. The location for the pick-up hadn’t been too far thought it was more secluded than the rest of the areas they had been. Within a tight alley, Tilo carefully navigated the car; taking care as he backed it through the space. Bartholomew could feel his stomach tighten with nerves as a group came into view. There were a few men and behind them – a metal drum.  
Tilo stopped the car and left it idling as he shot Bartholomew a look. The boy understood it as “Come along but don’t say a word.” Carefully, he got out of the car and followed close behind Tilo. The apparent leader of the group stepped forward as they approached and addressed the man. His tone wasn’t pleasant, as anticipated, and Bartholomew swallowed quickly. The exchange was in French and his ears strained to keep up. Tilo had taught him some words but he was far from fluent.

Tilo glanced back at Bartholomew after the man pointed at the boy. He shrank back carefully and Tilo addressed the other in French once more. No doubt trying to explain what a kid was doing there. It all seemed like it took an eternity before the others in the group finally handed over the drum – turning it on its side so it could roll easily. Bartholomew was given a signal to catch it and as it came his way he was surprised by the weight – his balance thrown off on impact. Thankfully, he didn’t fall and Tilo closed out the conversation before reaching to grab the other side. With a bit of effort, the drum was secured in the back of the car, the men dispersed, and the two drove on.  
Bartholomew blew out a long breath and peered at the drum from the rearview mirror. He didn’t want to acknowledge it but there seemed to be a smell.

“W…what do we have to do now?” he asked quietly.

Tilo kept his gaze trained forward, “Get to the harbor and drop this off.”

Bartholomew’s lips thinned at the curt reply but he had learned early on not to press Tilo. It was a losing battle that he and Camille had witnessed on several occasions when Nikita pestered the man.

“This should be quick.” Tilo offered as he turned the car onto the smoother pavement of the docks. There were small boats lined along them – some with passengers, others without – and Bartholomew’s eyes widened as he took in the sight. It seemed fairly busy near the water as the boy recognized the people out and about were fishermen. No doubt many had early morning catches to sell. The car didn’t seem too out of place as the pair made their way further in. The docks quickly turned into a labyrinth as large shipping containers towered above and freight ships became more frequent. The area was also much quieter and Tilo glanced around as he drove – looking for the right spot.

“Should be here…” he muttered as he turned the car into a warehouse. The entrance was big enough for a decent sized boat and Tilo maneuvered the car along a wall to block off the view. Bartholomew glanced about the open space as Tilo parked and got out of the car. The man opened the trunk and peered at the boy from it.

“Well, c’mon.” he said, “We need to check this before we drop it off.”

Bartholomew nodded quickly as he clamored out of the car and around to the back. Tilo wrestled the drum out of the trunk and the boy helped set it upright. The cold air was welcomed as the effort made the two breathe heavily.

“Get the wrench, would you?”

Tilo pointed vaguely towards the car and Bartholomew nodded again. He hurried into the backseat and dug through until he found the right tool. Passing it along, he watched as Tilo loosened the bolt on the drum’s closure. There was a small hiss as it released and the man let out a sigh before continuing. Bartholomew only peered uneasily as Tilo loosened the last of the bolt before taking the closure ring off the top. The boy was ready for the reveal but Tilo made a sound before going around to the backseats. He dropped the wrench in the back before leaning further down. After some rustling and mutters, he emerged with heavy gloves and a face mask.

“Get back a moment.” He said.

Bartholomew almost didn’t understand as the mask muffled Tilo’s words but quickly backed away – letting himself press against the cool iron wall a few feet back. He hadn’t joined Tilo on a trip until now. Not like how Camille had been on trips with Nikita. While they were away with Nikita, they learned all about guns and shooting and how to spot things that were hard to see. Bartholomew’s brows furrowed as stared at the drum. He’d only learned boring stuff like how to start driving a car and about some weird medical stuff. How people’s bodies worked, how to stitch things up, how to- His thoughts stopped in their tracks as he finally saw what was in the drum. Or at least, saw part of what was in it. Tilo placed the lid on the ground and looked back. Bartholomew did his best to become one with the wall at that point; hands splayed along the metal and eyes wide with fear. The man’s brows furrowed and he put his hands on his hips.

“You see this?” his words were still a bit muffled, “Come look.”

Bartholomew’s eyes darted between Tilo and the drum. The man pulled off a glove to lower his face mask.

“It’s fine-,” he said, “now get over here.”

The boy swallowed quickly; neck extending a bit to peer from where he was. The action wasn’t enough as Tilo sighed – long legs closing the gap between them easily. Bartholomew could only shrink as the other towered above.

“Bartholomew.”

“I-I’m sorry…”

Tilo put a firm hand on the boy’s shoulder; guiding him towards the open drum. He didn’t want to look – he really didn’t – but something held his gaze. The glimpse of a face emerging from the concrete, the hair not quite submerged within its stony depths. Tilo tapped the side of the drum with his foot and Bartholomew jumped.

“You see,” Tilo began, “They didn’t quite get the consistency right.”

He pointed at the concrete and Bartholomew nodded mechanically.

“That’s the most important thing – to get the whole body covered.” He continued, “And if you don’t have the material right then…”

Tilo shook his head and gestured at the drum. Bartholomew stared at the man with wide eyes and the other turned.

“Uncle Tilo, I don’t feel well.”

The man blinked a few times; brows high with surprise.

“Well,” he said, “get some air, be sick, do whatever you need.”

Bartholomew nodded; eyes still wide as his feet moved unsteadily towards the entrance. Tilo watched the boy go before looking back the drum and shaking his head. It would work as intended but he couldn’t help being a bit disappointed with the execution. There just wasn’t much attention paid to details these days… Tilo replaced the drum’s cover and tightened the closure up once more as he chastised whoever did this under his breath. The drum was set in motion after – rolling easily towards the open waters. Tilo now swore under his breath at the drum’s weight despite the ease that came with rolling it. There was still some fight as the body hadn’t been laid with care; giving the man a struggle with each rotation. Barholomew stared at the approaching drum from the dock he’d gone to. His stomach hadn’t anything to reject that morning but his throat still tightened and his brain flashed the image over and over again. He shook his head to forget it and quickly went over to Tilo. He could at least busy himself. He could distract himself from it for a little while even though his mind wanted to return to the thought badly. He stared past the drum and out to the ocean as his hands pushed along the curve of the metal surface. There was nothing to be said as he and Tilo finally rolled it off the dock; watching the unceremonious splash before it settled to its final resting place.

Bartholomew wondered what the person did to be put in there.

He swallowed roughly.

“That’s that.” Tilo announced. He gave Bartholomew a pat on the back – solid and sure – before turning back. The boy stared at the water for a few more moments until a gush of cold wind buffeted his cheeks. The shock made him shiver and he hurried after the other. Tilo had already started the car by the time Bartholomew returned and the warmth was welcomed as he settled into the passenger’s seat. He barely registered as it began to move and didn’t question where the other was taking him. His thoughts had already decided they’d had enough for one day and his eyes flicked along the cityscape that passed. Eyes half-lidded, he felt as though the image might come back – the face peering up. Had he made eye contact with it? He didn’t remember as he sank lowered into the seat.

“We should eat.”

Bartholomew barely caught the statement – brain still playing catch-up to the rest of the world.

“Okay.” the reply was mechanical and Tilo sighed in response.

Breakfast was a quick affair as a result; a brief stop at a bakery for a bag of different pastries and some coffee. The bag sat on Bartholomew’s lap as Tilo sipped his coffee; driving them a bit outside of the city. He followed the road that snaked along the coast and glanced over every now and again as the ocean emerged. Bartholomew finally addressed the bag in his lap after a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and into his eyes. He didn’t pay much attention to what he grabbed but the soft touch of the pastry seemed to help. It seemed so silly as he took a small bite.

It was very sweet.

“Uncle Tilo?”

The man glanced over – barely catching the quiet mumble amidst the drone of the car. Bartholomew kept his head turned; eyes trained along the coast.

“What is it?”

“Do you worry?”

Tilo took a tentative sip of coffee, “Worry about what?”

Bartholomew took a moment to swallow the bite he’d taken. The words wanted to come out but they seemed a bit stuck. The boy let his head fall against the window gently.

“About Uncle Nikita…”

Tilo spotted a scenic outcrop along the road ahead. He slowed the car before turning in; wrestling the old machine’s gear into park. Thanks to the cold weather, not a soul was out today and the man leaned back in his seat. Bartholomew kept his head against the window as he waited for an answer.

“Do you worry?” Tilo turned the question to the boy.

“All the time.”

The almost instant reply came as a surprise given the sluggishness prior and the man cleared his throat gently. Bartholomew lifted his head from the cool pane but kept his eyes trained to the ocean outside.

“Camille and Uncle Nikita are out doing dangerous stuff, aren’t they?”

Tilo’s silence was enough of a reply as Bartholomew went on.

“Sometimes, I get so worried…and I don’t know what to do. What if they don’t come back? What if something happens and they get really hurt?”

A furrowed came to the boy’s brow as he turned to Tilo – eyes red-rimmed and glossy.

“What if I have to bury Camille someday?”

Tilo’s eyes widened by a degree; heart pounding just a bit louder in his ears than before. The question was one he’d thought before about Nikita – what would he do? Would he be able to bury Nikita if it came to that? The person he…

The man dropped his gaze from Bartholomew’s and turned the car off.

“Come on.”

Bartholomew stared for a moment as Tilo left the car and began to walk down the sandy incline. The wind whipped his coat around him and he turned back; motioning for Bartholomew to follow. The boy hurried then as he tucked the bag of pastries beneath the seat. The sand gave way under each step as he trotted along in the cold. The ocean waves lapped against the shore steadily and Tilo stood at the edge as the water threatened to touch the tips of his shoes. Bartholomew rubbed his nose as he stood next to the man. The gray waters extended out over the horizon with no end in sight. A few brave vessels bobbed along in the distance – large seafaring ships that could handle the rough waters. Above, gulls hovered with the wind’s help and occasionally cried out. A bit of ocean water lapped over the edge of Bartholomew’s shoe and he jumped at the cold.

“Bartholomew.”

The boy looked to the man next to him – their eyes locking firmly.

“If you think of those things, it helps to shout.” Tilo continued over the sound of the wind and waves, “Like this.”

Tilo then turned back to the ocean and drew himself up as he took a deep breath. The air seemed still for the briefest moment while Bartholomew watched on; the image of Tilo’s stoic profile held high against the grey sky, pale sand, and dark ocean burning into his memory. There was a determination in his gaze – dare one say a sparkle even – before he parted his lips. The sound that followed was unlike anything Bartholomew had heard from Tilo before. It was a lion’s roar of a yell; something bright and wild that’d been torn from the depths of the man’s belly. Not quite frustration but not quite pained – Bartholomew could only stare as he took it in. Tilo bent with the force of it as the cry flickered out; arms raising at his sides and his hands balled tight. The wind caught the last of the sound and carried it out as the man put his hands on his knees and let out a sigh.

“You try.” Tilo said as he straightened up; returning to his stoic self without missing a beat. There was no trace left of his efforts – no reddened cheeks or harsh crinkle between his brow. The boy swallowed. He knew it was no contest but he felt sheepish as he breathed deep. It was then that he noticed the sting of the air in his lungs as salt and chill and wind all battled to be recognized. His eyes screwed shut as he drew himself up like Tilo had though he kept his hands balled close to his chest. The yell he called forth barely seemed to make it to sea like Tilo’s had and he glanced at the man.

“Again.”

Bartholomew did his best to try again but coughed with the effort. Tilo crossed his arms.

“Yell at me, yell at the ocean, yell at the birds; I don’t care,” he said, “Again.”

The instruction was frustrating as Bartholomew’s eyes watered. Taking the man’s first bit of advice, he turned to face the other. Tilo simply stood with his head turned – eyes maintaining contact as Bartholomew drew up himself once more. He could feel the pressure under the man’s gaze and recognized something building inside. As his chest puffed up comedically, Bartholomew kept his arms to his sides and widened his stance. The feeling within him was burning hotter than anything before and he realized he was angry. He was mad and frustrated and fed up. He didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want to do this, he wanted to be home. He wanted to be with the Father and Yann and Camille.

Before he could stop himself, Bartholomew let the feeling go – eyes shutting tightly with the force. His throat struggled against the sound that followed and he could feel the warmth of tears streaming down his face. The sound was interrupted with sobs but Bartholomew struck it up once more as if an invisible force was driving him. He didn’t even recognize what he’d been screaming as the sound finally died out in the waves.

“I hate you.”

It seemed to linger between the two and Bartholomew was hesitant to meet Tilo’s gaze. Thankfully, he didn’t have to as the man crouched down and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. For some reason, there was a calm expression on his face. Almost something kind. Something gentle.

“We do cruel work,” he said; rubbing Bartholomew’s tear stained cheeks with a sleeve, “and we do horrible things but…”

Tilo’s brows drew together as he smiled carefully. His lips parted as if to speak more but he seemed at a loss as his head dropped.

“There are those who love you,” he finally mustered as he stood, “so don’t be afraid.”

  
Bartholomew nodded despite not quite understanding and watched as Tilo shoved his hands in his pockets before he made his way back to the car. The boy watched the man’s back grow smaller with each step and he turned his head to the ocean. It would only be another month or so before spring and his chest tightened.

  
People who love him.

  
He desperately wanted to see them again. The gulls cried overhead as the car started. Bartholomew’s heart skipped a beat and he moved to rush over – to not be left behind – but Tilo simply stood; leaning on the car. It was a slight change and the boy smiled.


	2. Horrible Things

“This’ll be the last one before you go home.”

  
Nikita leaned hard against the table; balancing on the legs of his chair as he stared at the maps and charts laid out. Camille sat across from him with a grimace. The handgun in front of them was in the process of being put back together as they cleaned the parts carefully. The man hunched over the scattered pages – picking up a few before setting them back down. He scratched his head carefully before moving the papers around once more. A little inhale came from Nikita before he spoke. Camille didn’t bother to look up.

  
“Okay, okay, okay,” Nikita began, legs of his chair clattering hard on the floor as he pointed at a map, “we’ll set up here. That should give a clear shot before we go down, out this way, and then-”

  
The man glanced up and narrowed his eyes at Camille’s lack of attention. And enthusiasm.

  
“Kid.”

  
“…”

  
“C’mon, gimme like 10 minutes, okay?”

  
Camille glanced up at the other briefly before turning back to the gun. The cloth in their hand was covered with grease and they searched for a clean spot before continuing. Nikita groaned as he leaned back in his chair.

  
“Fucking hell…”

  
The sound of his voice was grating as Camille’s lips thinned. An American accent was nothing short of bothersome to their ears and they hated the specific intonation Nikita had. Their brain picked at where it was he was from but nothing came to mind – they just hadn’t cared enough to remember, it seemed.

  
“This is…” Nikita leaned forward again, “the absolute, _last one_ , okay?”

  
His hands gestured pleadingly as he spoke.

  
“Just fucking cooperate for once in your goddamn life, would ya?”

  
The glow of the low ceiling lamp made Nikita’s red hair seem even more garish than usual. Camille’s gaze narrowed as they inspected the handgun closely. Their willful attitude got another frustrated groan from Nikita as he ran his hands through his hair. Camille glanced up at just the right time to catch a glimpse of the man’s missing eye – his bangs a usual veil over it. Scarred tissue layered the spot where a left eye should be, and Camille always wondered what had happened.

  
Nikita never told that story, though.

  
“I know it’s the last week…” he began; hands on his face, “Don’t act like you own the place…”

  
“Ah-ha,” Camille hummed as they put a few pieces of the gun together, “I’m glad we both know who ‘owns the place’.”

  
Their reply made Nikita freeze as his hands lowered. The look in his eye was lit with a dangerous tinge that Camille dared to meet.

  
“Oh…” the man laughed, “Oh, you little shit.”

  
He stood; practically tossing the chair out from under him. Camille could feel the hairs on the back of their neck raising but they didn’t want to show it. The small parts of the handgun threatened to shake between their fingertips, but they managed to get them in with no trouble. Nikita’s larger frame loomed across the table and it seemed like he desperately wanted to lunge over it. Camille knew he wouldn’t though. They’d observed him enough over the past few months to know he wouldn’t hurt a kid – no matter what. A sigh escaped Nikita’s lips as he dragged his chair back and sat down.

  
“Let me finish this…” Camille said quietly, “then we can plan.”

  
Nikita crossed his arms tightly against his chest and let himself slide down the chair by a degree. His mouth pulled into a hard scowl as he rolled his eye. There was no shortage of attitude when it came to Camille, but he had to admit the kid had some guts. The pair sat in silence after – the clinking sound of metal parts filling the air every now and again. Nikita glanced at the clock on the wall and chewed his lip. There were about four hours before the hit and every second count. He swore gently under his breath.

  
If Tilo was here, then he’d have been able to corral the kid.

  
Hell, if Bartholomew was here then there probably wouldn’t have been a problem to start.

  
Nikita scratched his head. He didn’t get why Camille gave him such shit.

  
“How old are you now?” he asked suddenly.

  
Camille glanced up – the handgun almost back together.

  
“I’m 11.”

  
Nikita scoffed.

  
The other mocked the sound in reply before putting together the final pieces. With a quick once over, they were satisfied with the work and leaned against the table.

  
“Okay,” Camille said, “I think we should go here, then here, take the shot, then go this way.”

  
They pointed at various spots on the map – places Nikita hadn’t even considered – and looked at the man. His eye followed the child’s finger as they laid out the path and he rubbed his chin in thought. It seemed like they’d paid enough attention – whether they wanted to or not – and had already managed to improve on the idea.

  
“Alright.” He replied slowly, “We can do that.”

  
As he glanced up, Camille looked almost surprised. Almost.

  
“You’re going to trust a ‘little shit’ to plan this so easily?” they asked.

  
Nikita dropped his gaze to the table and rapped the surface a few times with his fingertips. His lips spread in a grin as he folded his arms atop the table.

  
“Yes.” He replied, “Cause you’re a little shit who’s also smart as hell.”

  
Camille’s face heated at the compliment – something few and far between from Nikita – and crossed their arms.

  
“Well, let’s get going then.”

  
Such a commanding tone from a kid made Nikita laugh as he stood; nodding in recognition. They hadn’t been given much time for this to begin with, so it was all the more important that they got to it. The preparation wasn’t too difficult or time-consuming, thankfully. Just a bag with the essentials – guns they needed, a few snacks and drinks (in case waiting for the target took long), binoculars, and a few other items.

  
If one ignored the guns, it was almost like the pair was about to go birdwatching.

  
Nikita checked his watch as they left the hotel room. They almost had three full hours at this point, though he hurried along – Camille working double-time to keep up. They were on the smaller side as it were and with a heavy bag in tow it was all the more work. Their lips were pulled thin with concentration but also frustration. Nikita could feel the dagger-like stare targeting his back as he left the building and wove in and out of the London crowds. So long as he felt that, he knew the kid was keeping up. A mental map was all he needed as he continued through – working his way down busy lanes and into side streets until he came upon the area. Camille was close behind and as they caught their breath Nikita scoped out the surroundings. The fire escape had its ladder up and out of reach, so the man shrugged off his pack.

  
“C’mon, we gotta get up.” he said as he motioned for Camille.

  
They let out a quick breath before dropping their own pack. Once it hit the ground, Nikita lifted them up and onto his shoulders. With the combined height, Camille easily clambered to the top of the first landing before kicking the ladder down. Nikita grinned at the efficiency as he slung his pack over his shoulder with Camille’s in tow. The pair continued along the flights of stairs until they got to the top. Nikita flicked a glance at his wristwatch – they had about an hour window to take the shot and then get out.

  
“Right,” he muttered to himself before turning to Camille, “Get this set up and calibrated – I’ll keep a look out.”

  
Camille nodded as they took the packs near the east-facing edge of the roof. A light breeze blew across as they worked quickly; the motions mechanic and precise. They’d practiced this countless times though it had only ever been on a range or in the woods. Nikita made his way over before getting prone and reaching into his bag for his binoculars. Camille finished the set-up as they calibrated the rifle one last time.

  
“Okay,” they whispered, “It’s set, Uncle Nikita.”

  
The man nodded, “Perfect. So, then we wait, and you take the shot.”

  
Camille practically whipped their head around to look at the other – eyes wide and mouth open.

  
“But, I’ve never shot a target befo-”

  
“You’ll have to start sometime – get settled; I see the car.”

  
Camille swallowed carefully as they rest their cheek on the rifle’s stock. Their gaze was trained through the scope as Nikita noted the position.

  
“A few degrees north, right by the alley.”

  
Camille’s heart seemed ready to jump through their throat as they spotted the car. Through the passenger window, they made out the shape of the target. The image grew clearer as the car drove on. Camille’s index finger twitched with anticipation as they licked their lips.

  
“Uncle,” they whispered, “When do I take the shot?”

  
Nikita lowered the binoculars to gauge the scene – noting the group the target was going to meet off to the side.

  
“I’d say give it 5.”

  
Camille nodded; a mental countdown happening in their head as they kept locked on the target. The car had stopped, and he’d gotten out of the back – a slightly older man but not one who looked memorable. Camille realized they didn’t even know why they were going to shoot him. They chanced a look at Nikita.

  
“Eyes on.”

  
Camille re-positioned – not losing the target for a second.

  
“Uncle Nikita.”

  
“What?”

  
“What did he do?”

  
“What-?”

  
Camille swallowed; they had maybe three more minutes.

  
“Why do we have to shoot him?”

  
Nikita shifted carefully, “Because that’s what we’re getting paid to do.”

  
Camille’s eye pressed against the scope almost painfully. Their heart beat so fast it felt like it was trying to fly away. There was maybe another minute or so. The image in the scope seemed to blur and wobble. Camille swallowed again – throat rough and dry.

  
“I-I can’t do it.” They could barely hide the fear in their voice.

  
“Kid, you have to.”

  
The image in the scope only grew blurrier as Camille’s eye watered. This wasn’t like shooting a target and it sure as hell wasn’t like shooting deer. They gripped the rifle harder – they had to take the shot and yet…

  
“Now, Camille.” Nikita’s tone was harsh – a bit frantic.

  
The target was moving.

  
“ _Camille_!” Nikita’s hoarse whisper urged them on, but their finger wouldn’t budge.

  
“I can’t-”

  
The man let out a frustrated breath as he dropped the binoculars.

  
“God- _fucking_ -damn it-”

  
Nikita let out a string of fast and low swears as he elbowed Camille away from the rifle - cheek nuzzling against the stock quickly as he took a breath. On the exhale, he pulled the trigger and the dull sound of a suppressed shot tore through the air. The dull thump seeming much louder against the sound of Camille’s heart beating in their ears. From the roof, they saw the man’s body crumple and the group scattered. Below, the pair heard gun fire. Nikita clicked his tongue as he quickly snatched the spent bullet from the roof and flung the rifle towards Camille. They didn’t have time to address the ball of anxiety that bounced against the walls of their stomach and shifted focus. The rifle was secured in their pack and they moved automatically – not caring that Nikita was behind as they followed the exit strategy. The tunnel vision of escape was the only thing Camille could focus on and the shift from alleys back onto busy streets almost didn’t register until they bumped into someone. The stranger glared before getting on their way and Camille pressed their back against the closest building – feeling the brick wall against the gun in their pack. Their chest heaved from effort and nerves and as Nikita rounded the corner, he glared hard at the child; stooping to take hold of their wrist before continuing.

  
“What the _fuck_ was that?”

  
He spoke low and fast – words gathering together. Camille’s head spun as they were practically pulled along.

  
“That could have cost us _a lot_ , kid,” he continued, “Not only money but it could have been our hides – what if I missed that shot, huh?”

  
Camille’s eyes watered again as they looked at the sidewalk.

  
“If I missed, we could have been in big fucking trouble, do you understand?” Nikita’s grip tightened and Camille winced, “ _Do you get that_?”

  
A few people stared at the pair as they snaked in and out of the crowds and the child sniffed. Nikita had slowed by a degree, but Camille could still feel their chest tighten as they worked out shallow breaths. They wanted to go home – they really, really wanted to go home now.

  
Camille stopped and Nikita jerked back.

  
“C’mon, we have to meet Tilo and Bartholomew.”

  
“Fuck you.”

  
“Excuse me?”

  
Camille breathed deep before shouting.

  
“FUCK YOU!”

  
They wrenched their arm from the man’s grip and the declaration made passersby stop in their tracks as Nikita’s eye widened. He glanced around quickly with an apologetic look before kneeling at Camille’s level. His hands settled firmly on their shoulders – as if to weigh them down.

  
“Jesus,” he muttered, “I’m sorry – ok? I’m sorry about whatever the fuck happened back there but now is not the time for this, kid.”

  
Camille stared hard as tears ran down their cheeks. Nikita clenched his jaw for a moment before letting it slacken once more. He took a deep breath and Camille almost tensed – expecting a shout back.

  
“Camille,” Nikita began, “we’ll make Tilo and Bartholomew worry if we’re late, ok?”

  
His tone was surprisingly genuine as the child’s lips thinned.

  
“Look,” he continued, “I-…I just…”

  
The head of red hair dropped for a moment.

  
“A fuck up might mean I don’t get to see Tilo again, ok? And it might mean you don’t get to see Bartholomew either…” the words were the softest Camille had heard, “If something bad happened, I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t want to die without telling Tilo ‘bye…You understand?”

  
Camille nodded carefully; seeing the discomfort on Nikita’s face. It was strange and new and they didn’t like it. They were used to Nikita yelling and swearing and grinning like an idiot. The sad look in his eye was going to make their tears worse.

  
“Let’s get back and we can just…relax - I dunno...” He said, “You wanna get back and see Bartholomew, yeah?”

  
Camille’s brows furrowed as Nikita stood. He turned to head towards the meeting spot – looking back to make sure Camille was following. They rubbed their eyes quickly before trotting up to his side and taking his hand carefully.

  
“Yeah…” they finally replied, “I miss him.”

  
Nikita nodded as the pair walked on, “And I miss Tilo.”

  
Camille gave a nod back before keeping their eyes towards the ground. The little cracks in the sidewalk spread out underfoot and the weight of the pack on Camille’s back seemed impossible. However, when they gave Nikita’s hand a squeeze, he squeezed back gently and somehow, the pack seemed a bit lighter than before.


	3. People Who Love You

            The Father paced down the aisle once more – shoes clicking against the stone floor – and glanced at his watch. They were late. They’d said they were arriving that night, but this was later than that. He rubbed his eyes quickly before turning round to pace back up the aisle. Somehow, he’d managed to keep himself awake past midnight but worried he might not be able to stay up much longer. The light of the moon broke through the stained-glass windows along one side of the church and helped the dimness of the chapel. The Father scarcely noticed Yann amidst all his pacing and worries.

            “I can wake you if you’d like to get some rest,” he said suddenly, “It wouldn’t be a trouble.”

            The Father practically jumped as he turned to look at the other. A sigh left his lips as he sat in a pew.

            “That’s quite alright,” he replied, “Very kind of you, though.”

            Yann sat one row back from the Father; leaning against the pew in front of him. He eyed the priest who had taken to rubbing his eyes once more – no doubt to chase away his growing weariness.

            “I want to be here when they arrive…Right here.” The Father said quietly.

            Yann pursed his lips, “Feeling the guilt, then?”

            The priest hung his head. Yann knew the answer all too well. The Father had been beside himself for the first few weeks after Camille and Bartholomew left which later died down as he became busy with holiday services. The waves of guilt went as they liked after – one mention of the kids causing him to stagnate for a day while his own thoughts would stop him the next.

            “I don’t like to use the word hate without good reason but…” The Father turned to Yann, eyes tired, “I certainly hate this business.”

            “I’d say you have very good reason to use it.” Yann almost chuckled, “There’s no good reason for children to become snipers or gravediggers.”

            “And yet, here we are.”

            The pair sat in silence for a time after – the soft sounds of night brushing along the walls of the church. It was a strange business the Father had inherited. He’d come to the church in this small village bright-eyed and eager; only to find that it was being strung along by organized crime. And that the kids he just took in were going to be a part of it. Not that any of the villagers knew. And, to top it all off, it was a partial vacation home for a vampire. The Father eyed Yann.

            If you didn’t know about Yann’s affliction, you’d just write him off as a very pale man. One who dressed well and had an air about him that made it seem like he’d lived a few times over. Though, that was the affect one had after living well over 400 years, it seemed. The Father glanced at his watch again – as if it would do good somehow. The watch face only stared back; letting him know it was solidly 12:34am and he sighed.

            “You’re sure you don’t want to rest?” Yann offered again, “Not even a quick nap?”

            “I really mustn’t,” the Father smiled, “I bet the moment I do they’ll arri-”

            The drone of an engine stopped the Father as he rose from the pew quickly. There wasn’t any reason for a car to come this way at this hour unless it was… He straightened his shirt and pulled at his sleeves. Yann couldn’t help but laugh.

            Outside, the engine had shut off and the pair heard small and familiar voices along with the deeper tones of the others with them. The Father took a few steps forward but held himself back. The large wooden had already begun to open and through them came Camille followed by Bartholomew. The pair of children stopped for a moment; somewhat unsure as the Father stood only an arm’s length away.

            “Camille. Bartholomew.” He said gently, “Welcome home.”

            And with that, they came running. The Father was well-prepared and knelt to receive them; nearly falling to the floor as they embraced him. He oriented himself carefully – an arm around each – and drew them closer still. Yann could only watch with a smile as the children buried their faces in the priest’s neck and shoulders; muffled sobs coming from them both. The embrace looked suffocating enough, but the Father attempted to bring them even closer and the sobs turned to laughter as the children playfully wriggled in his grasp.

            “Too tight!” Camille declared before emerging first.

            “I didn’t know you were so strong, Father!” Bartholomew followed up as he grinned.

            “Oh, you kids have no idea,” the Father said with a mischievous smirk, “The power of love can work wonders!”

            The priest took a moment to look the two over as he held them back; brows furrowing.

            “You both look exhausted…”

            “It was a long trip.” Bartholomew replied.

            Camille nodded in agreement.

            “Well,” the Father said, “how about you two get a little something to eat if you’d like and then get straight to bed?”

            “Anything we’d like?” Camille asked carefully.

            “Whatever you’d like, yes.”

            The reply seemed to be just what they’d wanted to hear as Camille glanced to Bartholomew with a grin. The Father smiled in return before bringing the children back into a hug. The pleasant mood seemed impenetrable, but the sound of more footsteps caused the Father to tense. The children had taken notice as they looked to him carefully.

            “We’ve brought their things.”

            Tilo had entered with a few bags in tow and Nikita soon followed with the rest. The children froze in the Father’s embrace as they sensed the change in his demeanor. His kind eyes seemed all but stone and his carefree brow had furrowed harshly.

            “You two…” He had practically hissed; drawing Camille and Bartholomew closer.  

            Yann took the opportunity to step in; hands out as he did his best to be cheerful.

            “Why don’t I take them along, hm?” he offered, “Camille, Bartholomew…”

            The pair carefully gave the Father a brief squeeze; feeling the tightness in his body as they did so, before going along with Yann. The Father drew himself up as they left – footsteps fading out until the soft click of a door meant they were gone. Nikita dropped the bags he carried on an empty pew and the sound seemed to erupt on impact; echoing throughout the church.

            “Look,” he said, “we’re just dropping them off and you won’t have to see us for a bit, okay?”

            Tilo put down what he’d been carrying a bit more gently, “No need to posture. We’re done with them for now.”

            The Father’s jaw tightened as he stepped forward – closing the gap between himself and the pair with sure steps. They didn’t seem to feel the anger in his heart, didn’t recognize the scorn in his eyes.

            Though, maybe they just didn’t care.

            “I’d rather you didn’t talk about the children like that.” the Father began; words leaving his lips before he could stop them, “’Done with them for now’ – as if they’re some set of playthings! I won’t stand for it in my church…”

            Nikita swallowed a nervous laugh, “C’mon now, calm down – there’s no need to raise your voice.”

            The Father’s fists tightened. His tone had risen by a degree, that was true, but not without good reason. The feelings he felt were very real and what these two were teaching his children was also very real. He could scarcely imagine what they had seen or experienced, but he didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to imagine it. It only added to the rising pillar of fire in his chest.

            “I won’t be told to calm myself...” the Father’s voice was clear and strong, “This is my home and I’m not afraid to do what I must if it concerns the children.”

            Tilo had taken this more seriously than Nikita and took a step forward – chest practically touching the priest’s as he towered over the other.

            “Enough.”

            The command was low and dangerous and despite a creeping sense of fear the Father was prepared to reply. But before he could open his mouth, Tilo had grabbed his wrist and twisted it around the other’s back. The motion threw the Father off-balance and with a knee to the middle of his spine, he was on the church floor. The chill from the stone seeped into his cheek and his body ached under Tilo’s weight. The man gripped the Father’s wrist tighter – pressing down. Nikita’s jaw dropped.

            “Tilo, what the fu-”

            “Quiet, Nikita.” Tilo shot back. He pressed further and the priest let out a low, pained groan.

            “Listen well,” he began again, “treating us poorly won’t get you anywhere – we’ll still do our job and you’ll do yours – it’s that simple.”

            The Father let out another sound as if to speak but with his face against stone it proved difficult. Tilo lowered himself – weight further pressing down – until his lips were close to the Father’s ear. His voice was but a hoarse whisper.

            “You take care of these kids, you don’t ask questions, you don’t talk back. We have no problems.” He said, “Understood?”

            There was brief silence before the Father nodded against the stone at his cheek. Tilo smiled and released his grip carefully, watching the Father as he stood once more. Tilo brushed some dust off the priest’s shoulders before the Father bat his hand away with a grimace. Nikita hesitated as Tilo turned.

            “I’m going to the car – we leave in two minutes.”

            Nikita was tongue-tied as he looked back and forth between the Father and Tilo’s retreating form. The door shut solidly behind the man and in another moment the car’s engine roared to life. Nikita rubbed his face with both hands and groaned.

            “Look, shit, fuck-” he stumbled over his words; hands gesturing as if it might help, “I’m sorry about Tilo – he got kind of attached to those two now and, well, they love you a lot, like you’re a great father – not like a priest father but a real father; a dad - anyway, don’t worry.”

            The man glanced around the church for a moment – as if he might have dropped something important – before giving the Father one last apologetic look.

            “God…shit; I gotta go – I’m sorry again, okay?”

            And with that, Nikita left. In the next moment, the sound of the car’s engine revved before droning on and fading out into the night. The Father rubbed his cheek carefully and looked at the children’s bags with a sigh. He didn’t know what he’d done – wasn’t quite sure what that encounter might have accomplished – but he was glad to have those two out of his hair. He gently gathered the bags as best he could and ambled along towards the back of the church. Yann had let the children avail themselves of the kitchen and the Father could only smile as he entered to see the three tucking away something sweet.

            “You said anything…” Camille mumbled through a bite.

            The Father nodded, “I did, I did.”

            Bartholomew was the first to offer the Father a hand as he hopped off his stool to grab his bags.

            “Father?”

            “What is it, Bartholomew?”

            The boy struggled for a moment before speaking, “Were Uncle Tilo and Uncle Nikita… okay?”

            The Father did his best not to wince at hearing those two called ‘Uncle’. Camille peered at the Father.

            “You were talking with them for a while so…,” they explained, “Bartholomew and I didn’t know if something was wrong…”

             “Everything’s alright.” he began carefully, “We just needed to clear up a few things between us, that’s all.”

            The children puzzled over the sentiment for a moment. It seemed like an acceptable answer though their faces still held some doubt. The Father wondered if they’d noticed his unease or the no doubt growing redness from the abrasion on his cheek. The Father laughed softly before ushering the children out of the kitchen and upstairs. Their shared room had been kept as neat and tidy as the day they’d left, and the Father felt a swell of joy as the two plunged face first into their beds. After a moment to enjoy the familiar comfort, the children began to dig through their bags for their bedtime necessities – toothbrushes, toothpaste, pajamas – and the Father left them to it. Back downstairs, Yann had taken up the task of cleaning up in the kitchen and the Father leaned against the doorway. Hearing the creaks of floorboards upstairs and muffled voices from the children had put a smile on his face.

            “You seem at ease,” Yann said, “Finally.”

            The Father smiled sheepishly, “That obvious?”

            “Very,” Yann focused on the dish in hand – drying it carefully with a rag, “You’re not hurt, are you?”

            The question threw the Father off-guard though he waved it away.

            “Just a little bump – nothing to worry about.”

            Yann leaned against the kitchen counter as he eyed the other. The steady gaze caused the Father to smile a bit as if to invite question or conversation. Yann took the chance as he pushed himself up and towards the doorway. The Father seemed to shrink back a degree at the approach and the other’s hand hovered above his cheek.

            “It looks like it hurts…” Yann said, “You’re sure you needn’t do something with it?”

            The unnatural coolness of Yann’s skin grew closer and the Father felt his cheek become redder – though not from his injury. It was a strange sensation and curiously, the anger he’d felt earlier altogether melted away.

            “I…uh,” he muttered, “I can take care of it… Thank you…”

            Yann’s hand kept steady – poised to touch the Father’s cheek – and he seemed about ready to do so but a thump from upstairs caused the pair to look up. The Father gave Yann a small smile before taking a step back to mount the stairs. He stopped short half-way up and peered at Yann below.

            “I could use cold compress, actually…” he said, “I think the pain’s starting to creep up.”

            Yann nodded, “I’ll make you one when you come down, then.”

            The Father smiled once more as he finished his climb; hand gliding along the banister until he rounded the corner at the top. The door to the children’s room had been closed and from behind it were giggles and murmurs and patters of feet. The Father knocked lightly on the door and the sounds died down before a muffled voice signaled for him to enter. As he entered, he saw Camille and Bartholomew tucked in their beds as if nothing was wrong.

            “I thought I heard a commotion up here,” he said as he sat on the edge of Bartholomew’s bed, “Maybe a pillow fight or something...”

            The children stole a quick look between themselves before looking at the Father.

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “We wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

            Their tones signaled otherwise, and the trio laughed – the Father breaking out in a chuckle first as the children followed suit. As their laughter died down, the Father carefully got up, reached over to pull the blankets further over Bartholomew before tucking him in gently. He leaned over and gave the boy a kiss on the forehead. Camille was next as the Father did the same – tucking them in with care and brushing back their bangs. He pressed his lips against their forehead and straightened; looking between the two.

            “I think it’s high time for bed.” He declared.

            There were no protests from the children as they smiled.

            “Good night, Father.” Camille replied.

            “Night,” Bartholomew said in turn, “Don’t stay up too late, Father.”

            The priest nodded as he turned to leave, stopping by the light switch.

            “I’ll get right to bed, as well,” he said, “We’ll need to be up early to make some breakfast and tend the garden, after all.”

            The children’s eyes lit up at the idea. Waking up in their beds, having breakfast with the Father before helping him outside and playing to their heart’s content. It was a wonderful thing to think of as their eyelids began to succumb to the long day they’d had. And with the lights flicked off and door shut, they nestled as far as they could into their pillows – finally at ease. Finally with the people they loved.


End file.
